


Long Time Coming

by fennecfawkes



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, M/M, Quarantine and Chill, Smut, Spideypool - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:42:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23204134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fennecfawkes/pseuds/fennecfawkes
Summary: Or, Love in the Time of COVID-19.Just some smut I've had rattling around in my brain thanks to a global epidemic.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 177





	Long Time Coming

**DAY ONE, 9:30AM**

Peter didn’t bother getting out of bed when class began. They weren’t videoconferencing, so no one knew he wasn’t dressed, his pale torso gleaming for none to see. As Professor Logan bravado’d his way through a lecture on the virus’ potential long-term effects on molecular biology, Peter allowed himself to drift off a bit. He wondered what MJ was doing, whether she’d bothered to log on or if she was still asleep, the worn elastic of her underwear drooping down her waist, and if Flash would ever wake up again -- maybe not, given the “Eat, drink, and be merry” status he’d declared before downing three shots at last call the night before. Peter didn’t let himself linger on the idea of what Flash wore to bed for too long. Now was not the time for a crisis of sexual confusion, not when Peter was facing down umpteen days of quarantine in the two-bedroom West Harlem apartment he shared with a madman.

If he had to share an apartment with a madman, he was glad it was Wade, the handyman for hire ten years Peter’s senior who owned the place. Peter had found him on Craigslist, and while Wade was certainly strange -- always in a baseball hat and a bandana, though the bandana was looking like a smarter choice every day -- he was also a mild grocery hoarder and simply tacked an extra $100 to Peter’s rent when Peter was too lazy to go to Trader Joe’s and back. Peter wasn’t worried about running out of food or toilet paper, given the inexplicable 96 rolls in the coat closet that forced him to keep his track jacket hanging on his bedroom doorknob, and the utilities hadn’t once faltered in the seven months he’d been living with Wade. Really, the only issue was Wade’s henleys, and Peter did his best to pretend they weren’t, that he didn’t look at Wade a second too long every time Wade came home from whatever work he’d been doing and stripped down to a paper-thin waffle-textured shirt. Peter didn’t ask questions about exactly what Wade did, and Wade offered no explanation, but whatever it was, it kept Wade lean and muscled. Peter didn’t exactly ache to touch, but he itched a bit.

When Logan finally stopped monologuing, Peter loped his way into the kitchen, tightening the drawstring on his sweatpants, not bothering to put on a shirt. It wouldn’t have been a problem under normal circumstances, him going around half-dressed, but Wade was standing at the stove, flipping what looked to be silver dollar pancakes.

“Hey, Petey,” he said. “Need some breakfast? Heard Columbia’s shutting down for … well, forever, or something like it.” Wade looked over his shoulder then and his eyes widened. “Oh, are we going to have to instate some kind of dress code? Because I’m pretty sure that’s not what you wear to class, sport.”

Peter blushed, the redness, as ever, making its way down to his collarbones (and sometimes further, though he wasn’t about to check himself out like that in front of Wade). “I -- I’ll go put on -- something,” he said lamely, and Wade laughed, a low chuckle that (whoops) went straight to Peter’s cock. He hoped against hope that Wade wasn’t looking below his waist just then.

“Don’t bother,” Wade said, and when did he start sounding like that, all throaty and … and … obscene? “Wouldn’t want you to get syrup on them anyway. Pancakes?”

Peter nodded and swallowed hard. “Yeah. Good. Sounds great. Perfect.”

“Glad for your vote of confidence,” said Wade, and Peter pretended as hard as he could that pancakes with Wade while shirtless was the most normal morning activity in the world.

**DAY FOUR, 10PM**

It wasn’t that awful, not really. He’d FaceTimed with Michelle and Ned, wrote a paper for English lit that wasn’t half bad, and accepted Wade’s invitation to play Mario Kart several times over. He’d gone for a run every day -- in a bandana lent to him by Wade, who’d insisted he cover his mouth if he was taking the risk in the first place. Wade had been exceptionally kind over the past few days, which was impressive, given the relatively close quarters they found themselves stuck in.

The only real issue was laundry. Peter was down to his very last pair of jeans and approximately zero t-shirts by the time he finally ran the tub and poured in some detergent. He grimaced as he knelt down next to it, checking the temperature and wishing he’d worn these pants slightly more often pre-epidemic. They were the tightest pants Peter owned, pants Michelle, in the midst of their two-month fling that ended in a much more emotionally satisfying (though less so sexually) friendship, had forced him to buy, citing “that exceptional ass you insist on hiding from the frankly deprived world.” They were pants so tight that the discomfort was all he could think about, which was probably why he forgot to close the bathroom door, which might have something to do with the banging noise he heard behind him as Wade walked into the doorframe.

“Are you OK?” Peter asked, springing to his feet and spinning around.

“I think so?” Wade squinted. “Are you wearing clothes that fit? Clothes that cut a figure? Clothes that make baby boy student Petey Parker a man?”

Peter found himself blushing for the, oh, gazillionth time since quarantine began. Wade had a way of doing that: looking at him, teasing him in the most disarming way. It was something Wade had done before, sure, but they’d never been stuck together this long before. It was almost as though Wade had been waiting for the opportunity to embarrass Peter. And do it again. And again. And again.

“They’re my least favorite jeans,” said Peter, and Wade shook his head.

“Well, they’re my favorite now,” he said. “I’m going to go get a bag of peas.”

Peter felt his sock dampen. Fucking tub and its short fucking walls.

**DAY SEVEN, 1:40AM**

It happened: a day when Peter did so little that, when the time came to fall asleep, he simply couldn’t do it. It would’ve been humiliating if anyone had known, but such as it was, he reached for his laptop and returned to the Ang Lee version of Sense and Sensibility. Sure, he’d skim the book when the time came to write about it, but for now, the movie felt like enough.

Now, Peter often cried at movies, and he didn’t consider it a personal failing, but just in case Wade decided to pay him a late-night visit -- and sometimes he did, especially when he’d accidentally ordered 16 tamales from the taco truck up the block than 15 -- he tried to hold it together. It was hard, though. Emma Thompson was really selling it, hard enough that Peter didn’t hear it when his door creaked open. In fact, he only realized he wasn’t alone when Wade spoke along with Elinor, “I've come here with no expectations, only to profess, now that I am at liberty to do so, that my heart is, and always will be, yours.”

“It’s probably Austen’s best work,” Wade said thoughtfully as Peter paused the movie and looked up at him, agape. Wade wasn’t wearing the bandana or the hat, and though his face was obscured in shadow, Peter began to understand why. His face was like his hands -- scabbed, scarred, what Aunt May would describe as “looking a fright.” Peter, for better or worse, couldn’t stop looking at him. Wade wasn’t attractive the way Flash or Michelle was, effortlessly, conventionally beautiful, but he was -- arresting. Peter gulped. Breathed out a bit. Picked up his laptop, put it aside, and tried his best to look at Wade in a come-hither way.

Wade snorted. “Really? This is how it happens? You weeping while Elinor finds love and I look like --” Wade paused. “Me?”

“Frailty, thy name is Wade,” Peter said, smiling, wondering if Wade would take the bait of a scrawny 19-year-old misquoting Austen while his cock hardened rapidly as it ever had.

Wade did.

“You’re sure about this?” he asked, stepping across the room, looming over Peter’s twin bed. “It’s all over. Cancer. Rare type. I don’t talk about it much.”

“Don’t talk about it now,” Peter said, pulling Wade’s hand toward his cock, pushing up into it through the sheets. He moaned as Wade complied, stroking him, firm and sure. “I want this. I think -- I know I’ve wanted it for a while. I don’t care what your skin looks like. You’re so weird, and you’re so hot, and I’ve never done this before, not with a guy, and I want you to be the first.”

Wade let go of Peter’s cock so he could settle himself on the bed, straddling Peter, who was beginning to realize how quickly he’d be going off. Certainly there wouldn’t be time for actual, real sex, not with Peter having not jerked off in a day or two (longer than he’d gone since quarantine began, God knows why). Peter hoped Wade wouldn’t mind too much but decided not to warn him, right up until he did.

“I haven’t jerked off in a bit so I might orgasm, like, right away,” he said, and Wade chuckled, rising up to hook his thumbs in the waistband of Peter’s boxers and pull them down. He leaned back to pull off his own, and Peter heard himself gulp involuntarily. Wade was … big.

“Also, that’s not gonna fit,” Peter said, because apparently any filter he ever had was gone.

“Oh, we’re not doing that tonight, baby boy,” said Wade, holding himself over Peter, one hand on either side of Peter’s head. “Do you want me to call you that? Or something different?”

“That … I like it,” Peter said. “And why not? Don’t you want to?”

Wade laughed, softly, not meanly. “Of course I want to. I’ve always wanted to, you with your tight ass and zero body fat and pretty mouth and habit of always paying your rent on time.”

“Punctuality is important,” said Peter, stuttering slightly as Wade shifted his weight to one arm and used his other hand to trace a finger down Peter’s rib cage. “So what are we going to do?”

“Well.” Wade made a show of stroking his chin and its lack of beard. “So you’ve never felt another man’s cock against yours?"

“Is that a thing?”

“You’ve never even heard of frottage?” Wade looked delighted by this information. Slowly, carefully, he lowered his weight over Peter’s, sliding his cock against Peter’s. Peter cried out, not quite guttural, but a higher pitch, one he would’ve found embarrassing if Wade weren’t moaning with him.

“Oh, you feel good, baby boy,” said Wade into Peter’s ear, grasping both their cocks in one hand, stroking firmly while Peter whimpered, hoping to God he could hold off coming for at least a few minutes. Sex with Michelle had been fun. She’d gotten him off with her hands and mouth more times than he could count. But it had never felt like this, like nothing mattered more than Wade’s cock dragging slick and slow against his.

“More,” Peter heard himself say -- moan, really -- and Wade picked up the pace, jerking them both off, his hand making filthy sounds as he leaned down to bite Peter’s neck.

“Do you like that, Peter?”

“Fuck. Yeah.” Peter found himself reduced to one- or two-word phrases as Wade groaned.

“If you’re going to come,” said Wade, “now would be the time. Then we can do it together. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, baby boy? Like for me to make a mess of you?”

“Yes, Wade. _God_.”

“Then do it,” Wade whispered directly into Peter’s ear. “Come for me. Come for Daddy.”

Peter did. And it was, as Wade (Daddy? Peter could live with that) had said, quite a mess. Peter would have to drag his sheets off the bed, maybe now, maybe in the morning, depending on how lazy he felt. Wade rolled off him, the twin-size bed barely accommodating both their bodies.

“But you didn’t--” Peter gestured.

“That’s all right, Petey,” said Wade. “It felt almost as good.”

Peter, bound and determined now, scrambled down the bed, hooking his legs over Wade’s thighs and leaning down to take Wade’s cock in his mouth. Now, Peter had never sucked cock before, never had the opportunity, though he’d always turned down Michelle’s offers to try out the strap-on. He supposed he’d always wanted the real thing. Well, he had it now, and it was better than he’d imagined, though he could feel his inexperience coming through. No matter. Wade was groaning, hands in Peter’s hair, tugging softly, a softness Peter may have considered further if he weren’t otherwise occupied. He’d read somewhere, maybe a Cosmo of Michelle’s he was pretending to mock, that you should behave as though your boyfriend’s cock was a delicious ice cream cone you were lucky to have. Though Wade wasn’t his boyfriend, Peter tried that anyway, slurping and sucking and twining his tongue around the head of Wade’s cock, and maybe it was just that Wade had already been worked up, or Peter was actually doing a decent job. Whichever it was, Wade warned him seconds before (“I’m close, baby, so close”), and Peter let Wade come straight down his throat. It was salty and horrible, but it was Wade’s.

“Not bad,” Wade said, sitting up as Peter did, kissing Peter on the side of the mouth, probably to avoid his own taste. He hesitated for only a second before adding, “Your first time doesn’t have to be your last. Just putting that out there. You can throw it right back if you want.”

“I don’t want,” said Peter. “I mean, I do. Want you, that is. But -- yes. Again. Soon.”

Wade smiled, something Peter hadn’t really seen before. “So I think the bottom line here is that epidemics are actually a positive development.”

“I don’t think that’s the bottom line, actually,” Peter said, daring to peck Wade on the lips. “But they may have their benefits.”


End file.
